The Religieuse Ripper
by flesh and bone telephone
Summary: Hannibal has a coffee shop, Will is the barista, and the coffee is PEOPLE. — Ensemble fic, AU.


**AN:** title and whole premise inspired by a coffee shop AU idea tattletale (on tumblr) came up with.

Why?

_Because I'm a lousy piece of shit._

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The delicate puff of a macaroon shell pinned between thumb and forefinger, rose water notes in the icing. Ingenious, the art of french pastry is complex. There is chemistry in the cooking, the gentle, precise science of a macaroon, the tiny feet floating about the rim of the shell like renaissance petticoat.

At the Delhi they fling curry at each other, sloshing ice tea into mason jars with patronizing smiles at their fedora wearing customers, hurling beakers of Habaron peppers and disdainful barbs, eyes rolling so hard it's a wonder none of them pull something. Hannibal watches Will pick up his tomato soup there, Hannibal allows it, forgives it as a force of habit, and then Katz leans over the linoleum counters, hissing _hey, hey, is it me, or have half of this town's picky assholes mysteriously disappeared?_

Crawford tells her to stop scaring the customers and do her job, which is manning the _goddamn counter._

Katz is actually the head chef, but Crawford likes delegating her to menial labor when she sasses him one time too many. It never lasts long, and it never sticks, because no one makes the ricotta parsley puffs the way Katz does, and Crawford can't trust the other two with anything involving puff pastry.

Katz grabs Will's face, compressing his cheeks, and says. "That bitch with the double expresso mochiatto shit," Hannibal knows the one, he's sat outside with his bird binoculars quietly for long weeks to observe the finicky, high strung customer who likes giving everyone in the service industry hell, her orders for the baristas are always ludicrous, she always throws a fit over confusing hazelnut and milk chocolate at the bakery, claims meat too salty, gelato too sweet. The last straw, however, was when she ordered a box of amaretto at Bedelia's and had the nerve to loudly proclaim them under-cooked.

Hannibal had not under-cooked her, she had a lean thigh that he complemented well with roccola and saffron smoked lemon zest dressing.

"She's not been coming around, she always comes around. _Always_. Hell couldn't keep her away from storming in here and asking for precisely one and a two quarter tea spoons of parsley in her steak sauce," Will's mouth works itself into a thin, discomforted frown. Already mulling over murder and motive. Maybe his face just hurts, she's got quite a grip. Katz's eyes go wide, urgent, "I am telling you, Will. Someone straight up _murdered_ that bitch."

Hannibal quietly streaks the name 'Beverly Katz' in cursive elegant serif of a leather-bound note book.

Will quietly pushes his brown bag towards the edge of the red linoleum counter, hoping gravity to do the rest so he can grab it as it drops and dodge like all hell. He's getting his crazy eyed look, the look he gets whenever someone walking a dog passes their shop.

Maybe he's just in pain, because Katz has the grip of a Canadian ax man.

Crawford shouts something frightening, and Katz retreats to manage the conflict in the kitchen where Thompson and Abrams are debating physics over the sirloin marinade again instead.

Freddie Lounds, resident foodie (online newspaper writer of the vegan column _fine eats_) and actual Health inspector, waltzes into the establishment, heels piercing tile. Will flinches at every step, her red curls flounce, and Hannibal rolls up the car window, opens the door and steps out, binoculars slipping discretely into his coat.

By the time Hannibal arrived to extricate Will, the man already had a death grip on his brown bag and Freddie Lounds was well into politely inquiring if Will still had a drinking problem.

Annoying, inquisitive little Vegan, but she had her uses.

Pastel pink in a hand gloved in tweed, Hannibal holds the delicate macaroon shell to the prickling light of Bedelia's elegant little patisserie.

She watches him drawn like a cello, hard, suspended like a sharp musical note. When Hannibal bites into the pastry, she is good at hiding her horror. He has, after all, given her ample opportunity to practice.

"Exquisite," the only compliment he's ever given her.

Bedelia isn't a fool, she brushes powdered sugar from her palms and tolerates his minuscule micro shark smile. Freddie Lounds too, is smart enough to understand that when his opinion on fine patisseries are given, it is well to write them down.

Hannibal is not, by any means, a giving sort.

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**tbc**


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